


The Rules

by imadra_blue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Affection, Canon - Video Game, Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, Drama, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Neck Kissing, One Shot, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Romance, Sharing Body Heat, Snowed In, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadra_blue/pseuds/imadra_blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There must be rules," Zevran whispered, his eyes hooded and his face strangely flushed given how cold it was.</p><p>"Rules?" Alistair asked, struggling to choke back his sudden flare of lust.</p><p>"Rules."  Zevran eased the pressure off Alistair's chest and pushed himself up on his elbows.  He peered up at Alistiar, his expression earnest, intense, but his eyes were still hooded, and his lips looked moist.  "I have Mahariel.  And you are married man.  I'm as much a bastard as you, but neither of us needs to be <i>that</i> kind of bastard."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syrenpan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrenpan/gifts).



> **Written For:** Dragon Age Holiday Cheer 2014.  
>  **Note to Syren Pan:** So sorry to be a few days late on this! I got sick, went on vacation back to my home country for the first time in over a year, got sick again, and long story short, this took me a while. I hope you had a wonderful holiday, even so!  
>  **Author Notes:** Set after DA:O, just before Act 3 of DA2. Features a conscious use of a trope. No Dragon Age: Inquisition spoilers, exactly, but the setting references places that appear in that game.  
>  **Beta Reader:** Many, many thanks to Emotionalmorphine for her amazingly fast and helpful beta reading!

...

Naturally, Zevran had chosen the Hinterlands to meet. Alistair wasn't even surprised when Zevran sent him a map marking the very spot that Zevran had once laid an ambush to kill him and Mahariel. That was just Zevran's perverse sense of humor. What surprised Alistair was the timing.

"You do realize it's the middle of winter, right?" Alistair asked, adjusting the fur ruff of his coat so it wasn't in his mouth. He shivered. His coat was of sturdy Fereldan make, but even that couldn't prevent him from being chilled to the bone.

Zevran glanced around at the snowy banks and skeletal trees. He chuckled. "Is that why there are all these white things on the ground?" His cloak seemed too thin for a Fereldan winter, despite the fur-lining. One would think he remembered how cold Ferelden could get during the winter, but perhaps his adventures in the warmer Free Marches had made him forget.

"Yes, we call it snow. We generally consider it a sign to stay inside our nice warm castles when it appears."

"Well now, not all of us have nice warm castles, I'm sorry to say. And this isn't the middle of the Hinterlands," Zevran said. Then he shivered and hissed for a moment, revealing how cold he must be. After a moment, he forced a smile back on his generous lips. "To be precise, we're to the southeast, near Dwarfson's Pass. Ah, I recall spending a lot of time here waiting for you to come along so I could kill you. Good times."

Alistair rubbed his temples. "Okay, what do you want this time, Zevran? Coin? Royal documents? Please don't tell me you need a place to stay. Anora will have a cow. Considering all the cows she's had over my handling of the mage refugees from Kirkwall, I'm going to be able to start a dairy farm soon."

"Oh, come now. You came, like you came all the other times, no?" Zevran snickered, though Alistair couldn't fathom why until he realized how many times Zevran had said some variant of the word "come."

Alistair rolled his eyes and groaned. "Yes, and Maker only knows why."

"My irresistible charm and dashing good looks?"

Alistair gave Zevran what he hoped was a withering glare. Zevran did not wither, however. He never did.

"What a grumpy face. Oh, dear. Being King clearly disagrees with you, my friend," Zevran said in a falsely patronizing voice. "Ah, how difficult it must be to live in a nice warm castle, married to a beautiful woman, served hand and foot by bowing servants. How do you suffer such constant indignities?"

"Hilarious. My position seems to agree with _you_ just fine. You've called on me for favors five times this year alone."

"Should I be contacting your wife, instead? Though I was under the impression that she is not terribly fond of me. I can't imagine why. Is it because I'm an elf?"

"Knowing her, it's because you're Antivan. And if it's any consolation, she's no less fond of you than me. Look, Zevran, what about Mahariel?" Alistair tried to say his name without venom, but failed. There would never be an accord between them again, not after the Landsmeet. "Shouldn't you be asking him for your favors?"

Zevran shrugged, his smile fixed. "He, ah, has been very busy."

"Busy? So busy you'd rather keep making awkward requests of me?" Alistair took a step forward and turned towards Zevran to avoid the bite of a particularly chilly wind that passed through. "Your lover is the man who betrayed me, but you keep showing up in my country to demand I help you with the Crows."

"Awkward, maybe, but who else should I ask? Leliana is busy with the Divine. Wynne is busy with the Circle of Magi. Shale is busy in Tevinter. Oghren is busy with the Wardens. Sten is busy with the Qunari. Morrigan is gone. Loghain is—well, even if he's not busy, I won't ask him. And Mahariel is… busy with the Wardens. You, my friend, are the only one in a position to help. And have I not returned the favors?"

Anger flashed through Alistair, largely at hearing Loghain's name. He crossed his arms. "I have a kingdom to rule, you know. I'm busy, too."

"But not too busy to come down to the Hinterlands on my request, no? Perhaps you need a mistress, since your wife is clearly not occupying enough of your free time? I could help you with that, you know. I know a good mistress when I see one."

"I'm not having this conversation." Alistair turned away. His guards stood up on the rise of the hill and he raised his hand to motion for them, but Zevran wrapped a small hand around his wrist, quick as the bird his former guild had been named for. Elves never ceased to amaze Alistair.

"Come now, Alistair, don't look like that," Zevran said, peering up at him. "I appreciate your help. You must know that. I returned every courtesy you paid me, yes? I am sorry to ask once more, but you're all I have left to turn to." He smiled. "You wouldn't abandon me, would you?"

Alistair worked his jaw. "I'm not denying you've been helpful. I'm suggesting that you've asked enough out of Ferelden's King that you should either become a citizen or find a new friend."

"Why should I have to find a new friend? We fought against the Blight together, yes? You would walk in front of me, shielding me from damage so I could sneak in from behind and drive a knife into whatever passes for a darkspawn's kidneys. Perhaps we're not the best of friends, but we are comrades, are we not?" Zevran dropped his hand.

"Is this you now reminding me how little friends I have?"

"No, this is me reminding you that if you stopped being so angry at me for something I had no power to control, you could call at least one person a friend. If you promised not to tell anyone. I've a reputation, you know."

Alistair studied Zevran. It had been five years, but he had barely aged. Alistair wondered how old Zevran even was. It was hard to tell with elves. Unless they were particularly old, they always seemed young to him. Zevran's hair had grown to his elbows, and he had several braids trailing down its length. The way he tilted his face up into his fur-lined hood made him seem quite pretty, though not in a particularly feminine way—not that elves dripped masculinity by human standards. His gold-brown eyes glittered in the midday sunlight. He seemed sincere. For an Antivan, at least.

"Fine." Alistair sighed. "I'm going to regret this, but what do you need?"

Zevran dropped his gaze. "There is a group of Crows and their associates, about ten strong, who made it as far as Redcliffe after me. I managed to keep them off me by making my way down here, but they eventually figured it out. I cannot face them alone."

"And Mahariel is busy?" Alistair asked. Mahariel apparently wasn't a very attentive lover. Zevran had plenty of trouble over the last couple of years, and it seemed he always ran to Alistair for help, not Mahariel.

Zevran glanced up and half-smiled. "Very busy."

"Great guy you picked there. Real loyal. Does he even care if you die?"

"He's busy for good reason. With important things." Zevran tilted his head until more hair spilled from hood. "Come now, Alistair. I'm not asking you to help Mahariel. I know very well how both of you feel about the other. I'm asking you to help me."

"And if I don't?"

"Ah, well, I could try to do this on my own. But then what if I fail? You'll have to contact Mahariel and—gasp, shock, horror—speak to him. And clean the pieces of me off all this nice white snow you have down here. And wouldn't that be a shame? I'm far too pretty to die."

"You're not that pretty," Alistair lied. "But fine. Let's get this over with. I hope you have a plan."

Zevran grinned. His teeth seemed sharp. "First, tell me exactly how many men you have with you."

…

At some point halfway through the pitched battle, Alistair realized that Zevran's plan was about as useless as a comb to a bald man. Zevran had claimed there were no more than ten people in Redcliffe ready to kill him, but there were at least twenty. And their strategist was much better than Zevran. The artificer had set many traps and claimed a number of Alistair's men. The tempest kept throwing grenades, forcing Alistair and Zevran back along the snowy slopes.

"Just like the old days during the Blight, hm?" Zevran chirped to his right. "All we need is a few darkspawn, and it will seem like we traveled back in time!"

"I lost sight of my men!" Alistair cried, looking around. He and Zevran had separated from them, and they were backing against the edge of snow-covered hill.

Zevran darted past him and flung a knife into an approaching assassin that Alistair hadn't noticed. "Good thing I haven't lost sight of the Crow's men. Though that one might have been a woman. Maybe."

Before Alistair could retort, he saw a bright light flash before his eyes, felt the heat of Antivan fire, and heard a deafening bang. The flash blinded him and his arms stung, even beneath his gauntlets. He staggered back, grabbing Zevran by the belt. Another grenade went off, and the snow collapsed between his feet. He and Zevran rolled down the steep slope with all the grace of a drunken giant. Alistair scrabbled for purchase and rolled so he landed flat on his back. Zevran landed on top of him. The second jolt of Zevran's weight collapsing against him hurt nearly as much as landing, but he suspected it would have hurt Zevran far worse if it had been Alistair who landed on top, given their size difference. Zevran rolled off as quick as a cat and slashed his knife out at another approaching assassin. Alistair staggered upwards, his back aching, snow seeping into the slits of his armor. He saw a figure dart towards him, and he thrust his sword arm out only to realize he had dropped his sword in the fall.

"Duck!" Zevran cried.

Alistair did as he was told, though he would later wonder why he so immediately obeyed Zevran's battle commands. Zevran's knife flew over him and into an approaching figure. His attacker fell with a small wet sound. Alistair found his sword halfway sticking out of the snow and fished it out, ignoring the cold sting it made through his gloves.

"Why do you even need me?" Alistair grumbled.

Zevran smirked. "I required a witness to my greatness. But if it's any consolation, those two were as dazed as you were. And thanks to you, I had a semi-soft landing."

"Wonderful, I get to be useful. That's me, trying to smooth over elf-human relations with my torso."

"And a wonderful torso it is. Well done."

Alistair sighed at the compliment and glanced about. It had grown quiet. Snow fell around them, cold and miserable. "I don't hear any more fighting. We need to find my men."

"Well, lead on, your Kingliness."

After rolling his eyes as dramatically as he could muster, Alistair spun on his heel and marched forward. He climbed the hill again, but he couldn't see through the snow. His men were nowhere to be found. The only tracks he saw were his own, and they quickly filled with snow.

"Where did we separate from them during the battle? Hmm. That direction, I think," Zevran said, answering his own question as he gestured back towards the northwest. Or what Alistair sincerely hoped was the northwest.

"Let's go," Alistair said, his voice sounding tighter than he intended. He continued to march, the cold winding its way through his armor, through his leathers, through his underclothes. He walked past an empty hunting cabin, envious of the owners who no doubt had taken shelter in Redcliffe by now. He walked and he walked, Zevran trudging behind him, the only sound that of their feet crunching on snow and the growling of wind. The sun dipped low across the horizon, threatening to take any lingering warmth with it.

"We've walked for some time, my friend. I don't see your men. Not even a single woman, actually," Zevran said, his voice a steaming hiss as snow began to blow past them with ominous dedication.

Alistair drew up short. He was a Fereldan, and a Fereldan who had grown up in the Hinterlands, no less. He knew what had to be done. "A storm is coming tonight. We have to find shelter. Tomorrow we can resume the search—or hope they find us."

Zevran blinked up at him, snow catching in his eyelashes. "The hunter's cabin a while back was the only sort of shelter I saw. I hope it is sturdier than it looks."

Alistair nodded. "It's better than nothing." He sighed and turned back around, now facing the wind. Snow gusted past him, the wind strong enough now that his muscles strained with every step. He was walking down a slope, but it felt like walking up a steep hill. He forged the way, keeping Zevran at his back so he wouldn't struggle against the wind—and likely lose, given his smaller frame.

This would be a long and miserable night.

…

Outside the windows, the wind howled like the abominations once had at Lake Calenhad. A fire flickered low in the firepit, barely offering any warmth. They had found a couple of thin fur scraps sewn together, discards from the hunter who owned the cabin, to wrap themselves in. Alistair removed his armor, which bit cold against his flesh. He draped the fur scraps over his shoulder, but the chill was sharp enough to cut through them, his coat, his doublet, all of it. He peered out at the yawning darkness outside. He couldn't even see snow until some spilled through the loose slats in the wall.

"Black as the heart of a darkspawn out there." Alistair turned around to face Zevran, who sat by the firepit, hands practically in the small fire in a bid to keep warm. "We'll likely have to dig ourselves out tomorrow."

Zevran cursed in Antivan, a gentle rise of syllables that Alistair didn't quite catch. "One day, you'll have to explain to me how your Fereldan ancestors came to the conclusion that this frigid wasteland was even habitable, hm?"

Alistair drew the musty fur covering around his shoulders and considered Zevran. He remembered long and cold winter nights spent in Redcliffe as a child. When the storms blew like this, the elves had often taken him from the stables and invited him to pile with their children before the kitchen stoves to stay warm. He had been a small boy, but still fatter than any elf child, and they often had huddled up around him, their fingers and the tips of their noses and ears cold as ice. It was not unusual for an elf to die on a cold winter's night. They had less than half the body mass of a human and did not withstand cold temperatures well. It was no wonder their ancient civilization had largely lay to the warmer north.

Alistair sat beside Zevran and studied him. "You're probably colder than I am. And I'm pretty damn cold."

Zevran winced suddenly and jerked away from the fire. He blew on his hands and sighed. They looked only a little red, but Alistair suspected he had singed himself on the fire. Alistair took Zevran's smaller hands in his. "Look. It's cold enough we should share body warmth. I know cold like this is hard on your kind."

"Antivans?" Zevran asked, staring at Alistair's hand and then up at him. His eyes seemed larger than normal.

"That, too. But I meant elves. Fereldan winters, especially this far south, are hard for humans, too, but it always seems that most of those who freeze to death are elves."

Zevran tilted his head, but didn't slip his hands out of Alistair's grasp. Alistair could feel the knife callouses on his palms, but they were otherwise delicate, though not quite in the way a human woman's would be. Zevran chuckled. "Who am I to turn down the embrace of a King?" Then he slipped his hands free and pulled his gloves back on. "Back to back, by the fire. Like civilized men." 

Alistair complied and let Zevran lie closer to the firepit before lying with his back to him. A little warmth spread across his back where he could feel Zevran, but Alistair swiftly found that unsatisfying as the cold continued to seep deep enough into his body to leave him aching. It wasn't bound to get any warmer, so he rolled onto his back and pulled Zevran against him.

Zevran flipped so he faced Alistair, lying on his side. The weak firelight behind him illuminated the spill of his hair, rendering it golden at the edges. "Tired of being civilized so soon? Just like a Fereldan," he said in a light tone, though he felt tense in Alistair's arms.

"Tired of being cold." Alistair pulled Zevran closer, just as he might a woman during one his fumbling encounters, but he left his hands across Zevran's back rather than set them wandering. He felt strange holding Zevran like this, bodies pressed together, arms entwined, as if they were lovers. It was not love that had drawn them together, but the cold. Yet, Alistair felt a strange gratitude for the comfort of another being.

"Mm." Zevran didn't relax, but some of the tension eased from him as he pressed against Alistair's side. His lips brushed across Alistair's ear. "A number of my favorite books include such romantic situations as these. Leads to my favorite parts of the book, too. Pity this situation is lost on both of us."

Alistair exhaled, surprised by the warm thrill that Zevran's lips and breath produced against his ear. The rest of him felt over-cold, but his ear burned. "It's not romantic. I'd cuddle with Loghain on a night like this." It had been far too long since Alistair let himself enjoy the touch of another person. He had once been the sort to cling to romance, but there was nothing like a loveless political marriage to the daughter of the man he wanted dead most in the world to ruin one's romantic ideals.

"Oh? Before or after you killed him?"

"Before. Dead men run cold."

Zevran rested his head on Alistair's shoulder, an oddly affectionate place to nestle himself against Alistair, but Alistair didn't feel inclined to readjust him. Having Zevran drawn close against his side felt natural somehow. Like something he should do even when it wasn't cold. It eased something deep in Alistair he hadn't felt until Zevran snuggled against him, but it made him equally tense. He feared a physical reaction that would make the situation intensely awkward.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose and furrowed his brow, trying to squeeze those dangerous thoughts from his mind. The last thing he needed was some insane attraction to Mahariel's lover. Zevran stirred and tilted his head up, cold lips brushing ever so slightly against the corner of Alistair's jaw. Alistair shivered, but not from the cold.

"You're so tense," Zevran whispered. "Have I offended you? Please tell me how, so I can do it again later for fun."

"You're not any less tense."

Zevran chuckled into Alistair's ear. "No. But these sorts of situations end much differently for me than you, I suspect."

"Tch." Alistair thought of Mahariel, of Zevran and Mahariel. He had tried to ignore their relationship for so long, and perhaps he still ignored it. But it existed regardless of his ignorance. During the Blight, he had been young enough to find the thought of two men together embarrassing, but now he didn't know how to feel about it. A part of him was intrigued. "You fancy both men and women. Why?"

Zevran chuckled and shifted against Alistair. "Hm, what a strangely impossible question to answer. Tell me, then, why do you fancy only women? Seems rather restrictive to me."

Alistair didn't feel cold any longer the more Zevran pressed against him, shifting as sinuously as a cat, and he wondered if he really did only like women. He licked his lips and stared up at the ceiling of their rickety cabin, listening to the winter wind howl, to Zevran's breath against his ear, to the thump of his own heart. Zevran shifted again, his thigh brushing against Alistair's thigh, his hand resting on Alistair's chest, and the heat that flashed through Alistair made him forget the cold. He sucked in a breath, but he couldn't stand anymore of Zevran's evasive touch. He rolled over, pinning Zevran beneath him, and bent down for a kiss.

Zevran pushed up on Alistair's chest, denying his kiss, widening the gap between their bodies, letting the cold in between them. "There must be rules," Zevran whispered, his eyes hooded and his face strangely flushed given how cold it was.

"Rules?" Alistair asked, struggling to choke back his sudden flare of lust.

"Rules." Zevran eased the pressure off Alistair's chest and pushed himself up on his elbows. He peered up at Alistiar, his expression earnest, intense, but his eyes were still hooded, and his lips looked moist. "I have Mahariel. And you are married man. I'm as much a bastard as you, but neither of us needs to be _that_ kind of bastard."

Alistair's stomach twisted at the mention of Mahariel and of Alistair's empty marriage. His sudden urge to fuck Zevran through the furs they lay on didn't feel nearly as insane as it should. He sat up, feeling the cold settle everywhere but where he needed it to. "So back-to-back it is."

"The rules need not be that harsh." Zevran continued to study him as he sat up as well, drawing close to Alistair. "Clothes stay on, not that we'd want to remove them, I'd wager. No kisses on the mouth, and lips must remain above the collarbone. Hands above the waist. Nobody comes tonight. The rules will keep us both faithful men."

Alistair blinked, trying to understand exactly what Zevran was offering him. "Doesn't seem like there's much left."

"Then you clearly—" Zevran kissed the corner of Alistair's jaw. "—need to work on your imagination."

Warmth spread from Zevran's kiss and Alistair let Zevran guide him back down. Zevran pressed against him fully, hands wrapped about Alistair's shoulders, his lips planting kisses along Alistair's jaw, down his throat, fingers pulling open Alistair's doublet just enough to suck on Alistair's collarbone. Alistair groaned without immediately realizing he had, welcome heat spreading with every kiss. 

"Rules," Zevran whispered when Alistair shifted. Alistair stilled, but he couldn't remain still for long, not with Zevran kissing his neck, his fingers rubbing at his shoulders. His hands wandered awkwardly up and down Zevran's back, memorizing every curve, every slide of compact muscle under his fingertips, until he reached up and indulged himself by stroking Zevran's ears.

After a moment, Zevran tilted his head away, eyes dark now, even in the firelight. "Rules," he gasped, his cheeks flushed, his lips moist from sucking on Alistair's neck.

"Rules?" Alistair slid a finger over the surprisingly soft tip of Zevran's right ear. "But I haven't broken any."

"Don't touch my ears," Zevran whispered. "New rule." He didn't explain why.

Alistair withdrew his hand with a sigh. "As you like."

Zevran kissed Alistair's chin and slid his hands down Alistair's side. The warmth grew too much, and Alistair's pants grew tight. Every part of him wanted more than what he was being offered, and the knowledge that he was forbidden by the rules to do anything with that warmth left Alistair longing to walk through the snowstorm outside while naked. Even the thought that Zevran had done this to Mahariel didn't leave him any less wanting. If anything, it made him want even more. Zevran felt like intoxication made flesh.

"Rules," Alistair gasped and moved away from Zevran's eager mouth.

Zevran tilted his head. "Rules?"

Alistair ran a finger over the tattoo on Zevran's cheek. "Rules," he agreed and ran his tongue along the length of the marking. He could taste the salt of Zevran's skin and a hint of some spicy cologne. Zevran gave a small chuckle as Alistair licked his face. He ran his hands over Alistair's chest, and Alistair only regretted the leather doublet separating Zevran's fingers from his skin. Zevran squirmed enticingly underneath him, and within a moment, Alistair had to break off to let the cold restore sense into him.

But sense didn't last long. Alistair hardly noticed the cold any longer with Zevran pressed against him. Kisses across the face and neck were often interrupted by a gasp of "Rules." Hands wandering too far down, lingering too long in one spot, or bodies shifting too much, rocking ever so slightly, earned the same interjection. When Alistair felt like he might burst out of his skin with desire, he would remind Zevran of the rules and pull back. They approached the brink and then yanked themselves back, over and over, indulgence and denial.

Alistair fell asleep with the bitter cold biting at his back and the near-overwhelming warmth of Zevran snuggled against his chest.

…

The next morning, Alistair and Zevran pried the door off the cabin and began digging their way out. Zevran didn't look Alistair in the eye, not that Alistair could meet his gaze, either. In the light of morning, with the cold seeped into his bones and the warmth of Zevran's body nothing but a memory, Alistair could only think of Mahariel, how Mahariel had betrayed him, how Mahariel had free reign to touch Zevran without any rules, but clearly hadn't done so in some time. It gnawed at him, this new injustice.

It wasn't until they emerged from the snowbanks surrounding the cabin, blinking in the sunlight, that Alistair realized how misplaced his desire was for Zevran, of all people, regardless of Mahariel. Zevran was an assassin, an Antivan, an elf, a _man_. Alistair didn't know what the night before meant to Zevran—or even to himself.

The air was quiet as they crunched their way across the snow. The cold lacked its bite from the night before, but it still left enough of a mark that Alistair kept his cloak firmly wrapped around himself. As they trudged up a hill, Alistair glanced back. Zevran met his gaze and then looked away.

"So we're not going to talk about it?" Alistair asked, turning back to the front.

"Talk about what, exactly?" Zevran's tone seemed deceptively light. "There were rules, and we both followed them to the letter. Andraste herself couldn't accuse us of being unfaithful."

"You think so?" Alistair glanced back, but Zevran's head was tilted down, the furred ruff of his hood obscuring his face. "If you don't want to talk about it, then just say so."

Zevran sighed and glanced up. Alistair could only see his mouth, full lips cracked and dry in the cold. They had felt so soft the night before, but Alistair wondered if he had imagined that. "Ah, well, tempting as it is, I think it's best we don't speak of it. For now."

"Anora and I are hardly close. So I suppose it's because of Mahariel?"

"Does it especially matter why?"

"I suppose not." Alistair fell silent after that until he saw a visible trail in the snow, footprints. He glanced around, and over the rise in the distance, saw the tops of wooden buildings and gray smoke trailing out of the crooked chimneys. The Crossroads of the Hinterlands were just before him. There, he could regroup and try to find his missing men, if any still lived. And food, his empty stomach reminded him.

"So this seems to be where we part ways, my friend," Zevran said.

Alistair paused and glanced back at him. "It doesn't have to be."

"Yes, it does." Zevran took a few steps until he stood by Alistair. "Last night proved we both want things neither of us can have, maybe even the same things. But I made promises, and I won't turn my back on them so easily." He tilted his head up, his hood slipping back to reveal his glittering gold-brown eyes. They seemed more intent than Alistair ever recalled.

"Fair enough," Alistair said, studying the way Zevran stood, still as a cat, but poised to move on.

Zevran lowered his head. "I'll come back."

"The next time you need something. Of course."

"If you don't wish me to—"

"Never said that." Alistair lifted a hand to place on Zevran's shoulder, but he remembered how he burned and wanted when he touched Zevran, so dropped it back to his side. "Maybe things will be different next time."

Zevran lifted his head again and smiled, ever so slightly. "Who can say? Maybe they will be."

Alistair turned and watched as Zevran trudged up the hill alone towards the Crossroads. After a few minutes, he followed, warmed by the thought of a maybe.


End file.
